When I think of seasons, I think instantly of Tasha Tudor, who depicted them so beautifully—and who, in my sodden Northwest childhood, gave me an idea of what seasons could be like for people who didn’t live on the edge of a temperate rain forest.

I’m shocked to find that this new/old urge to write is punishing. It is not folksy and warm. It does not smell of babies and grass stains. It’s demanding, elbowing its way into the privacy of my dreams.

This month, we’re celebrating books for which we are thankful. These works speak to us and offer perspective, hope and understanding; they remind us to value what we value. Personally, I’m grateful for every minute I spend reading any book, …